


All Is Mended

by paintedrecs



Series: Then Fate O’errules [1]
Category: Gargoyles (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Colleagues to Lovers, Did I mention pining, First Time, Fox/Xanatos, Happy Ending, Lingerie, M/M, Manhandling, Open Relationships, Owen POV, Pining, Poly Negotiation, Presumed Infidelity, Self-Discovery, Shapeshifting, Unprotected Sex, bottom!Owen, break up make up, communication is important, demiromantic Owen, emotions are messy, heavy spoilers for canon, polyamorous Xanatos, see end notes for clarification/details, slight dubcon, top!Xanatos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedrecs/pseuds/paintedrecs
Summary: Considering it later, with a clearer head, Owen couldn’t be certain what had compelled him. There were numerous ways to force Xanatos to rest, to take the necessary breaks to soothe his anger-riddled impatience. Few of them required magical intervention. None of them, certainly, necessitated the steps that brought him to Xanatos’s bedroom late that night.It was a game, Owen told himself as he stood outside the door, his fingertips brushing lightly against the handle, not yet turning it. He was merely following another spark of curiosity until it dimmed. It meant nothing.
Relationships: Puck | Owen Burnett/David Xanatos
Series: Then Fate O’errules [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640824
Comments: 36
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I’m joining the Gargoyles party a million years late, bearing pizza and a surprising amount of smut (for me, anyway). Within about two episodes of this show, I messaged a more Gargoyles-knowledgeable friend to ask, “Is this blond glasses dude in love with the villain?” About 70 episodes later I concluded that he absolutely 100% without question is, that Xanatos might actually be worthy of that love, and that it is perfectly reasonable to watch an entire show about gargoyles and come out of it with Owen Burnett as your favorite character.
> 
> I expect maybe one person to read this fic, but I needed to get it down so someone, anyone, can feel these Owen/Xanatos (Xanatowen?) feels with me.

Falling in love with a mortal was one of the worst mistakes a member of the fae could make.

Puck had watched it happen before; he knew the consequences. Titania hadn’t been the first, nor would she be the last. Try as he might, he’d never understood the attraction. Humans were small, weak, and delightfully gullible—fun to toy with for a time, true, but that was the extent of their appeal. Playthings were meant to be discarded once they’d lost their shine.

Yet even the greatest of the fae—Oberon’s erstwhile Queen—had fallen prey to the basest of human desires. _Love_.

The thought never failed to bring a scornful curl to Puck’s lips. Mortals flung the word about as though they had any concept of its depths, composing odes to what was rarely more than simple lust.

Even Titania’s love—far more complex than that of the human she coupled with—wilted as quickly as Spring’s first buds. But the union yielded a child—half-fae, with no knowledge of her gift—and Puck, in his usual quest for curiosities, halted his aimless travels at the discovery.

He watched the child grow, and Titania’s attachment to her mortal husband fade as she turned longing eyes back to her banished realm.

Puck watched, and waited, eventually taking on a human form that settled uneasily across his shoulders. He spent his days chafing under petty commands in order to learn of a world far inferior to his but filled with its own brand of intrigue and experiences that, for a time, felt tantalizingly fresh.

Curiosity had been the first step, as with most things in Puck’s long—and often woefully dull—life.

He’d trailed after Titania, using her banishment as a ready excuse to make his own escape from Oberon’s rule, but had kept himself apart for the first few centuries. He’d dipped into human affairs for his own amusement, emerging from each adventure eager to learn more, untouched by the murky turmoil of their emotions.

Mortals were slaves to pleasure or despair—frequently both, the opposing forces wound so tightly together they’d lost the ability to tell them apart. Puck simply tugged at the strings, the lightest of touches, to watch what resonated, what collapsed under the weight, what sprang free.

He’d seen much during his time among the mortals. Hatred. Greed. Jealousy. Wars, one after another. The endlessly fitful bloom of so-called love.

In truth, Puck had doubts that such a thing existed. Certainly not in this mortal land. And, without question, not for him. It was a view he’d held for centuries but never spoke of since for fae, love was inextricably tied to fealty.

There were layers of love in Avalon. The fae loved each other, yes, with more depth and longevity to their couplings but as many petty squabbles as their human inferiors. There was familial devotion. Friendship, such as it was. And above all else, love for their King.

Oberon loved his Queen with a boundless, if tempestuous, devotion that stretched in some small part to each of his subjects. And Oberon’s so-called Children, without exception or complaint, would gladly lay down their lives to show their love for him.

Those who had sworn eternal fealty to Oberon would not— _could_ not—break the bonds that tied them to Avalon’s shores. If called, they must return. Bow a knee. Do anything he willed.

_Dost thou love us?_ Oberon would demand, from time to time, with a monarch’s certainty.

The fae would set aside any discord to respond with one voice, bathing their lord in their adoration.

For eons, Puck had remained silent.

Neither love nor lust had ever held much interest for him, in this realm or in his.

Until he met Xanatos.

***

_Owen Burnett_.

Puck had taken on a number of shapes over the past few centuries, shifting into whatever suited his fancy, then returning to his true form to wreak playful havoc. None of his facades had lasted more than a few days. There were scores that Puck hardly remembered now, faces he’d discarded as easily as breathing.

Owen was...different, somehow.

It was a joke at first, a way to slide into the human world while poking fun at Halcyon Renard’s immensely wooden aide, a man so dull and lifeless Puck nearly wept with boredom in his presence. It was fun to play someone so humorless, so devoid of joy that he’d probably never even heard of the word.

Still, he’d begun to tire of it before long, his interest flagging as he cast about for greener pastures. Titania’s mortal husband was brilliant, insofar as that word could be applied to a mere human, but Puck had quickly plumbed the depths of Renard's clever little inventions. He was ready to move on to something more exciting, more layered with delicious complexity, someone like...Titania’s daughter, perhaps, who’d grown into a young woman with her mother’s spirit and little of her father’s tedious morality.

Puck toyed with the idea for a while. He was restless; he’d already stayed in one city, one skin, for too long and didn’t relish the notion of trading a father for a daughter who’d tie him to the same role—who might begin to think familiarity meant ownership. He’d spent nearly a thousand years free from the expectations that came from being _Oberon’s_ Puck. He had no intention of replacing one lord and master with another.

But the former Janine Renard, now _Fox_ , fascinating enough on her own, had another draw. A darkly handsome boyfriend who moved and spoke with the alluring confidence of a man who knew he was anyone’s equal: in strength, intelligence, and, above all, ambition. There was a ruthlessness to David Xanatos; Puck didn’t need to be fae to sense it.

Ambition was common enough. Puck had seen empires rise and fall; he had no need to witness another mortal’s vain attempts to climb to the heavens. But he hesitated. Xanatos was brimming with a desire for power, yes, clearly bent on the too-common and always fruitless quest for immortality—but he lacked the streak of cruelty that made most human leaders so tiresome. There was a kindness in him, a deep-rooted sense of honor and fair play that he never flaunted nor attempted to hide.

Despite his better judgment, Puck was intrigued.

Shifting allegiances was easy; Owen’s references were impeccable, his resume impressive and almost entirely false. Xanatos handled the interview himself, his dark eyes intent on Owen’s, piercing and thoughtful. He asked probing questions and listened carefully to the answers, his sharply defined lips set in a firm line, betraying no clear emotions that could be tapped into or exploited. It was unsettling, in a way Puck had never felt before.

He wasn’t sure that he liked it. But he wanted...more.

He lasted six months before breaking.

Xanatos looked at him sometimes like he _knew_. Not Owen’s true nature, no—that was impossible. Even Titania, as Anastasia Renard, busy playing at being a human wife and mother, hadn’t seen through him. And mortals were so simple. All it took was a pair of glasses to fool them. Add a suit, a precisely knotted tie, a vocabulary thick with deferential language, and you could slide through life virtually unnoticed. He could’ve kept his hair long, his build slight, his pointed ears neatly tucked under a hat, and no one would have been the slightest bit wiser.

But Xanatos was different. He _saw_ Owen. He made Owen more than a personal assistant; he kept him by his side, turning him into a respected colleague. A partner. He continued asking penetratingly thoughtful questions, and he continued listening with an attentiveness that should not have been surprising and yet somehow was, every time. And Owen...Owen _responded_ with more than words, with enthusiasm that seethed dangerously under a carefully placid surface.

He still felt restless, but that was different now, too. It was never something that made him want to leave Xanatos’s side. He was...happy there. Content, if such a thing was possible. Yet he’d begun to feel strange in his own skin sometimes, like it was too warm, too tight, like his chest couldn’t quite hold the too-human heart thumping within it. It was pleasure, mingled closely with pain, and after nearly a thousand years treading the mortal realm, Puck finally began to understand a little about humanity.

The rest happened thus.

It started on a day like any other, with Xanatos seated behind his wide mahogany desk and the world’s leaders waiting on the other end of a phone that Owen held, relaying Xanatos’s instructions to them. With a click of the receiver and a dry comment that anyone else would think stemmed from a stodgy sense of duty and complete lack of humor, but which made the corner of Xanatos’s mouth curve in amusement. With an “ _Owen_ ” that had such warmth and familiarity to it that his chest fairly ached in response.

It began with a sudden, reckless decision: glasses tucked into a starched shirt pocket and, “Sir, I think there’s something you should know.” With a rapid, world-churning spin, tailored wool giving way to looser robes, white hair streaming past his shoulders, and an off-kilter grin settling onto a wide mouth that should’ve known how to hold it but couldn’t quite manage.

With Xanatos sitting forward in his chair in interest, rather than back in astonishment. With that same warmth flooding his voice as he said, “I always knew you were full of surprises, Owen.”

From there, it was both easier and harder than it should’ve been.

Puck gave a demonstration of his powers that was impressively, absurdly thorough. He was showing off; that in itself was nothing new—what was the point in having power if you couldn’t flaunt it?—but the motivation behind the overly flashy display was something he didn’t care to look at too closely.

At the end of it, he gave Xanatos a choice. He could have one wish from Puck. Anything his heart desired.

“And the other option?” Xanatos asked, clasping his hands beneath his bearded chin, his eyes as intent as ever.

The question shouldn’t have surprised him. After all, Xanatos had never been like the others, who would’ve jumped at such an offer without waiting to hear more—whose wishes Puck would’ve twisted into something far more interesting and less satisfying than they’d expected. But Xanatos wasn’t just looking for the trickster catch.

The second option didn’t come with visual aids. There was hardly a need to state it. After all, who would choose Owen over Puck?

“Hm,” Xanatos said when he was done. He sat back, finally, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “A wish from Puck. I’m well aware of the value of that. And it can be anything?”

He kept the smile on his lips, with effort. For once, he spoke the absolute truth. “In Avalon, I’m second only to my Lord and Lady; my powers may have limits, but I haven’t discovered them yet.” It was likely he could give Xanatos anything he desired. And if it did somehow turn out to be beyond his ability...well, Puck always found a way.

“A single, immeasurably powerful, burst of Puck’s magic, or a lifetime with Owen,” Xanatos continued. He lifted an eyebrow slightly. “You’ve been with me for six months now, Owen. This isn’t usually how my employees give notice.”

And there, strangely, was the catch. A trap set not for Xanatos, but for himself. When Xanatos inevitably asked for the wish, Owen would cease to exist. Puck would go back to wandering strange lands alone, free of any fetters. It should’ve been what they both wanted. But he swallowed before nodding, his voice far brighter than his spirit.

“You can wish yourself an entire staff,” he said, making it a joke, as Puck always did. “I can bring the very stones to life for you; they’ll never tire, never quit. Never ask for a raise.”

Xanatos’s mouth twitched slightly. Not a smile, not quite. Not like before. “And if Owen stayed?”

“He’d require a quite substantial promotion,” he said with a touch of Owen’s flat intonation, watching as that hint of a smile flickered now, then flared into a white-toothed grin that scorched straight through his chest.

_Honesty_ , he thought. The concept was still new to him, but he hadn’t opened this proposal for his usual petty reasons.

“If you ask for Owen,” he warned, “he doesn’t bring Puck with him. There won’t be an endless supply of wishes. Owen is mortal. He eats, he sleeps, he bleeds—if he bleeds enough, he’ll die, and Puck will die with him. Owen can catch a cold. Lose a limb. Need a sick day.”

“So the food poisoning in Peru?” Xanatos asked, humor crinkling now at the corners of his eyes.

He grimaced, and nearly pushed his glasses up his nose in a prissily irritated gesture before remembering that he didn’t have Owen’s glasses anymore, or Owen’s nose. “As real as the rest of it,” he said wryly. “Owen’s as human as you are.”

Xanatos had been watching his movements, listening to the nuances behind his words, as carefully as he always had. “I understand,” he said.

He chose Owen.

And after that, for large stretches of time, Owen forgot that he had ever been someone else.


	2. Chapter 2

“Any news, sir?” Owen asked.

Xanatos turned from the empty ramparts, the tight lines around his mouth and eyes only easing slightly. “Owen,” he said, his voice scraping roughly over the greeting. He clearly hadn’t slept again. “No. I’ve pulled every string I can. The parole board won’t budge.”

Which meant that Fox would, in an absolute best case scenario, be jailed for another four months. Considering how the last parole hearing had gone, it was far more likely that she’d serve out the remainder of her sentence alongside the rest of the Pack.

“Nine months,” Xanatos said gruffly, his thoughts following the same path. He’d set his face to the city again, but his emotions were evident from the hunched lines of his shoulders down to the powerful grip of his hands against the gargoyle-gouged stone. “And it’s already been seven, with nothing but supervised visits through glass. I can’t do it, Owen.”

“I know, sir,” Owen replied. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat slightly. “You’ll be wanting to initiate the plan, I imagine.”

Xanatos’s fingers gripped tighter, crumbling a loose flake of stone, then loosened. He was calming himself, slowly, and with great effort. He didn’t bother with an answer; they both knew there was no other option. Instead, he asked, “Do you have a progress report for me?”

“We have everything we need,” Owen said. He’d supervised the arrival of the last shipment that morning, likely while Xanatos had been phoning the former governor—a friend, of sorts, without enough political sway to overcome the recent tide of negative publicity. Between Xanatos’s imprisonment, and now this debacle, their legal recourses were at an end. “If we begin work now, I estimate completion by October.”

“September,” Xanatos said, in a grim tone that brooked no argument.

“September,” Owen amended, inclining his head in agreement. A pointless gesture: Xanatos’s gaze was still fixed on the horizon, towards the prison no human eyes could pick out from this distance.

***

The first weeks passed slowly. There was much to do: construction, tests, plans, more tests, until even Owen’s head was swimming with it. By the third week, Xanatos’s irritability had risen to almost unmanageable levels. He ate only when firmly reminded and hardly slept. 

Before the month’s close, he’d driven away two members of the staff, nearly botched an important trade deal, and insulted someone with royal blood and a tendency to hold violent grudges. Owen’s patience was at an end. Significant action had to be taken, and soon.

Considering it later, with a clearer head, he couldn’t be certain what had compelled him. There were numerous ways to force Xanatos to rest, to take the necessary breaks to soothe his anger-riddled impatience. Few of them required magical intervention. None of them, certainly, necessitated the steps that brought him to Xanatos’s bedroom late that night.

It was a game, Owen told himself as he stood outside the door, his fingertips brushing lightly against the handle, not yet turning it. He was merely following another spark of curiosity until it dimmed. It meant nothing. 

He breathed in, then out, then let the transformation ripple over him. It was strange to be in a different body after so long—years now of being tied to the same form, until he’d almost forgotten what it was like to take on a new one. That had to be the only reason he felt lightheaded, his breath coming shorter than it should have, his hands sweating. He steeled his nerves and wiped his palms against the red silk of his negligee before twisting the handle.

Xanatos, as Owen had expected, wasn’t actually in bed. He turned at the sound of the door, caught half in moonlight, half in shadow by the far window. Owen’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted yet to the dim lighting, but the important pieces were easy enough to pick out. Xanatos had prepared for bed, even if he had no intention of actually sleeping. He was barefoot and shirtless, clad only in low-slung silk pants that clung precariously to the sharply defined lines of his hips. He’d loosed his dark hair from its usual tie; it spilled forward, brushing against the moon-kissed curve of his throat, as he tilted his head in puzzlement.

He was tired; ordinarily, the cogs would’ve clicked together faster in his ever-quick mind. But it was late, and Owen was certain his thoughts had been bent on Fox—so strongly that it would have taken him a moment to clear his vision and realize that she was no longer a figment of his imagination.

Owen wasn’t as sure what he’d expected to happen from there. He stood still, the palm of one hand extended behind him, braced against the door, as he waited.

Emotions flickered over Xanatos’s face. Mild surprise, a furrowed brow that hinted at confusion, then a shard of what almost seemed like pain, followed by a quick succession of others that were harder to define. He took one step forward, into deeper shadow, then another, into a thin bar of silver light that didn’t reach to his eyes. When he finally spoke, it was difficult to read his tone.

“Is this another of your services, Owen?”

Far too late to consider turning back, then. He let go of the door and let his hips sway enticingly as he moved forward. “I thought that you would’ve missed me by now, David,” he replied, in Fox’s husky tones.

The moonlight across Xanatos’s lips shifted as he pressed them together, his jaw tightening so suddenly Owen could almost hear the bones click.

It was wrong, all wrong. Owen had suffered what he was realizing might have been an unforgivable lapse in judgment. His heart, human still but no longer fully his, rose to his throat, fluttering wildly.

He halted in place, the silence settling heavily over them.

After several too-long, thickly weighted moments, Xanatos shook himself slightly, letting out a harsh breath through his nose, as though he’d come to a decision he wasn’t entirely happy with. He stalked forward, covering the distance between them in a few quick strides. Owen barely had time to react before he was caught in Xanatos’s grasp—firm hands on his hips, pulling their bodies together. Bare seconds later, his mouth was on Owen’s, an unpleasant crush of lips and teeth.

 _All wrong_ , Owen thought again as Xanatos tightened his bruising grip—thumbs digging into an unfamiliarly narrow waist—then released it suddenly, only to slide his hands down, grabbing at the curves of his—Fox’s—ass in a possessive move that nearly lifted Owen to his toes, slamming his— _Fox’s_ —slim body against Xanatos’s.

Xanatos let go again, each movement jerky and rough, allowing their saliva-sticky mouths to part for a moment as he covered one of Fox’s breasts with a wide, calloused palm, cupping it in a too-tight squeeze, then scraping the pad of his thumb against the budding nipple as he shoved his other hand lower yet, under the thin scrap of fabric beneath Owen’s negligee.

It was, to some degree, what Owen had expected— _wanted_ , he’d thought—to happen. He’d done many things to and with humans—some benevolent, some less so. In a millenium, this was the first time his actions had ever brought on a surge of self-loathing.

 _Not like this_ , he thought miserably, and Xanatos stepped back abruptly, releasing him, as though he’d heard the unspoken plea.

“David?” Owen asked again, in Fox’s voice, and Xanatos shook his head sharply.

“You’re not her,” he said. “And neither of us want you to be.”

The truth carried a sting. Owen couldn’t quite contain his wince; Xanatos, with his usual eye for detail, clearly caught it, but didn’t comment.

It’d been a foolish idea from the start, stemming from what’d become, over the past four years of loyal service, an overpowering need to give Xanatos anything he longed for. Owen would never _be_ Fox and hadn’t tried to take on anything other than her appearance. Fooling Xanatos hadn’t been the point. He’d simply thought...

It’d been a miscalculation on every level. In all his life, he’d never before wanted to use the Phoenix Gate, to turn back time and change the past. He’d never felt so utterly powerless.

And for the first time in his life, he had absolutely nothing to say.

“Owen,” Xanatos said after some time, his voice regaining a fraction of the usual softness that accompanied that name. He raised his hand, momentarily cradling the air around Fox’s exquisitely crafted face, then dropping his arm back to his side without ever touching.

“Owen,” he said again, like it meant something. Then, in a brisker, more businesslike tone that had sealed thousands of deals to his advantage: “I see two options here.”

Owen lifted his face to Xanatos’s, seeking out the dark eyes that caught the moonlight and held it in their depths.

“One. You can leave now, and we can forget this ever happened. I don’t blame you for this, Owen. I know what you were trying to do, and I thank you for it.”

 _But don’t ever do it again_ , Owen thought. He nodded, ready to accept the bargain, but Xanatos lifted a hand to stop him.

“Two,” he said, his eyes intent, his voice dipping into a lower, more intimate register. “I see the...value in your proposition, Owen. But not like this. Not as someone else. If you want this, Owen, as yourself, in your true form—you can stay.”

After four years, Xanatos could still surprise him. Owen parted his lips but didn’t speak; it felt wrong to, now, in this shape. Despite that, he had the sense that Xanatos could still see him as he was, as he’d somehow always been able to, beneath all the layers of magic veiling him—shielding him.

“It’s your decision,” Xanatos said. He took a few steps back, giving him space.

There was only one choice to make; Owen knew it, and he suspected Xanatos did as well. They wouldn’t be able to _forget_ —another foolish notion—but time would patch over the discomfort. There was plenty to occupy them—endless plans, other dreams that Owen could assist with, as he always had, as he always would.

There was only one choice, Owen thought, as his heart panged, his eyes fixed on Xanatos’s, trying to read what was contained within.

He breathed: in, then out, more shakily than he would’ve liked, then transformed.

Xanatos’s first reaction, as before, was surprise—a slight widening of his eyes, an almost imperceptible part to his lips as he inhaled softly. But this time, it was followed swiftly by a smile, then a throaty chuckle as he took three steps forward, touching the glasses framing the sharp lines of Owen’s face.

“So you come with these built in, but not the rest,” Xanatos said, his amusement warm, thick with something that felt like affection.

The flush over Owen’s cheeks and nose was involuntary; he glanced down at the sheer negligee that still clung to his leanly muscled body, that he’d entirely forgotten to replace with something more appropriate—the crisply tailored armor that he nearly always wore in Xanatos’s presence.

“No,” Xanatos said, setting a steady palm against the flat planes of Owen’s chest, then plucking lightly at the narrow strap across his shoulder. “Don’t change it, not for me. It suits you, Owen.”

He moved backwards, then, extending a hand, waiting for Owen to take it.

Nothing about Xanatos could be classified as gentle; Owen wouldn’t have wanted it that way, wouldn’t have known what to do with it. But this kiss was different than before—a question that Xanatos pressed against his mouth, waiting for Owen to answer in kind before pushing forward with some of the earlier aggression. It _felt_ different, with Xanatos’s lips meeting Owen’s, his hands sliding once more to Owen’s hips, to the rounded globes of his ass, each touch sparking different sensations, a heady pleasure that hadn’t been there before.

“Do you want this?” Xanatos asked again, audibly this time, his voice ragged with desire, the rush of his breath warm against Owen’s ear. Owen answered with an eager press of his body against Xanatos’s, their heights similar enough that he had to duck his head to Xanatos’s shoulder with a low groan as their hips aligned.

The fabric separating them was so thin that he could feel the heated brush of Xanatos’s skin against his, then the throb of blood coursing through their cocks in unison, pressing them closer together than he’d thought possible.

After that, Xanatos stopped asking. Owen lost his glasses at some point; he’d need those, he thought distantly, then forgot to care. They kissed until Owen’s body felt languid and full, his contentment honey-thick, continually sparking with new pleasures that made him gasp, then shiver, then dig his fingers into Xanatos’s shoulders, needing more. Each time, Xanatos responded, his tongue sweeping possessively into Owen’s mouth, his feet roughly knocking Owen’s legs apart so he could rub the hot swell of his cock into the silky channel of hard muscle along Owen’s hip.

It wasn’t enough; Xanatos stepped backward again, taking Owen with him, until they reached the bed—empty and inviting, large enough to hold two men with broad shoulders and fiercely hammering pulses. He spun them, pushed Owen to the mattress, where he bounced once, then lay still, watching as Xanatos finally stripped off his pants.

Owen had already known that he was wearing nothing beneath, but the sight still made his breath catch, his eyes hungrily following the bob of Xanatos’s cock as he loosed it from its silken bonds. It was thick, heavy, nestled in dark curls and curving wetly towards the taut muscles of his belly.

Owen reached to touch, and Xanatos let him, for a few sweet moments, before pushing his hands aside and shoving Owen higher up the mattress so he could straddle him, then duck down until their lips met again.

Every touch felt like it was searing Owen’s skin. He ached with it, simultaneously needing to pull away, to press forward, losing his grip on who he was, on what it was he wanted.

 _I’m his_ , he thought, arching up with a gasp of surprise as Xanados pushed the scrap of panties aside, grasping him in a rough palm, stroking him firmly until the muscles in his abdomen quivered with it, until a sheen of sweat coated his chest, beading along his hairline. 

“You’ll need to relax,” Xanatos told him, and Owen nodded, as a reflex, but without following the order.

He lost track of time for a while, as Xanatos slid the lacy fabric down his muscled thighs, slowly at first, then impatiently. He obediently lifted his shoulders so Xanatos could free him from the rest of his clothing, and gasped again, softly, as the silk trailed over the tender flush of his kiss-swollen mouth, before being tossed to the floor in a soft crumple.

Xanatos kissed him again, firmly, with a promise behind it that made Owen shiver in its intensity.

“Turn over,” he said, settling back on his heels as Owen did so, feeling strangely vulnerable with his cock now trapped beneath him, his back to Xanatos.

After a few long moments, during which he could feel the prickle of Xanatos’s gaze sweeping over him, warm hands settled on his shoulder blades, then smoothed their way down, halting just short of their goal.

“Brace yourself on your elbows and lift your hips,” Xanatos instructed, then, a little more softly, “It’ll be easier this way,” as though Owen had never _seen_ such things before, as though he’d never...but he hadn’t, not like this. He’d never felt the need, never given into the sordid cravings that seemed to saturate everyone around him but had always steered clear of his path.

He breathed out when he was told, but the first push brought more pain than pleasure, and he inhaled again, too sharply, too audibly. Still, Xanatos didn’t heed it at first, his hips pressing harder, his breath starting to shudder as the wide head of his cock began to breach Owen’s hole—dry, far too dry, and Owen pulled himself forward, shooting a furious look over his shoulder.

“I’m human, sir,” he reminded Xanatos sharply, and Xanatos withdrew with a startled laugh.

“Owen,” he said, bending down again, carefully keeping the length of their bodies apart for the moment, to press his lips to Owen’s throat in a quiet trail of apologies. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

He let Owen turn over, kissed him again until the pain eased, until the tense anger seeped back out of Owen’s veins.

“Wait for me,” Xanatos ordered with one final kiss. “I think I have something that should help.”

He left the room for a few minutes, then returned with a bottle that he squeezed onto his fingers, warming the slick gel in his palms before spreading it generously over the length of his cock. He slid his wet thumb down to Owen’s hole, stroking against it absently, lost in thought.

“You’re human,” he said finally, his brow creasing again. “I don’t think I have any condoms here. Fox and I haven’t used them in a while; we’ve been wanting...”

Owen turned his head to the side, swallowed thickly. He’d known, of course. It wasn’t like he could’ve ever forgotten.

He still let Xanatos kiss him, drawing his attention back, stroking their tongues together, plunging his deeper inside Owen’s mouth as he slipped a slick finger far lower, loosening tight muscles that Owen had never spent time considering.

“We’ve been tested,” Xanatos said after a while, a question. “Our relationship...neither of us has been with anyone else in some time. I can show you my last test, from a few weeks ago, if you’d like. Or, if you prefer—” He moved his hand away; Owen knew there were other options, other ways to derive pleasure.

“No,” he said, taking hold of Xanatos’s wrist, guiding it back. “I want this. I trust you.”

They kept to the less comfortable position this time; Owen wanted to see him, and Xanatos seemed to understand, without needing to hear the words.

Owen panted into Xanatos’s mouth as his cock finally pushed inside—pain still, at first, but shading into something better before long, something that made tears spring unbidden to the corners of his eyes but sent new warmth coursing through his entire body.

“Good?” Xanatos asked, and Owen nodded without speaking.

Xanatos’s thrusts were long, deep, and unhurried. He reached down to stroke Owen at first, just enough to ease him through the first parts of their coupling, when his body had begun to flag from the discomfort, then kept his hands to other, less sensitive parts of Owen’s body.

He was making it last, Owen thought. For both of them; perhaps because he intended it to be their only time together.

Xanatos continued thrusting in a steady, tireless rhythm, one hand eventually bracing against the tight muscles of Owen’s abdomen, the other cradling Owen’s jaw. Not gently, but almost, Owen thought, letting his eyelashes flutter shut, letting the sensations in the room fade to just this: Xanatos’s hair, loose around his shoulders and tickling Owen’s chest; the obscenely wet squelch of their bodies meeting, then parting, then meeting again; Xanatos’s breath against his lips, sometimes touching, sometimes just distant enough to fill him with unbearable longing.

He gripped at Xanatos’s shoulders when he felt the wave start, and Xanatos soothed him, but without the slightest halt in his relentless movements. Owen’s entire body tightened, his veins filling with light as the wave crested, then rose impossibly higher, easing slightly for a shuddering moment, only to surge again, not breaking, never—

He moaned, turning his face to Xanatos’s, his fingers digging harder into Xanatos’s smooth skin, his mouth open, silently, asking, _needing_ —

Xanatos touched his lips to the corner of Owen’s mouth, then ducked his head a little, watching the space where their bodies joined. He was panting, too, his breathing increasingly ragged, his chest heaving with the effort and shining with sweat that Owen could feel dripping onto him, sizzling against his overheated skin.

Another crest, harder than Owen thought possible to withstand, then, finally, a release—his cock shuddering, untouched, spurting over his belly, splattering against Xanatos’s lightly furred chest. Owen gasped, and clung harder, and felt Xanatos come inside him.

There were a few more thrusts—Xanatos’s body shaking, unwilling to stop just yet—before he gave one final, drawn out groan, folding himself down against the length of Owen’s body. He didn’t pull himself free, and Owen didn’t ask him to.

They lay in silence for a while, punctuated only by their breathing, Owen’s arms around Xanatos—hesitantly, at first, until Xanatos nudged their noses together, and smiled, and let his body relax against Owen’s.

“Breathe,” Xanatos ordered again when he finally pulled out—his softened cock freeing itself from Owen’s body with some resistance, as though struggling with the same reluctance Owen felt. Sticky white streams came in its wake, and Xanatos grimaced as he wiped himself clean on sheets that someone else would have to wash.

“Owen,” he murmured, his eyelids fluttering with exhaustion, his body finally sinking into much-needed sleep. “Will you buy some condoms in the morning? I’d rather not deal with that mess again.”

It was foolish, Owen knew, as he lay in Xanatos’s bed, holding him, for just a little longer, until Xanatos was snoring in his ear, fully at peace. Hope was a human emotion, something that kept mortals slogging along in their dreary lives, believing in something more. He knew better. He always had. And yet.

***

He returned to Xanatos’s room the following night, then the next, until one week stretched into two, then three, his very soul craving Xanatos’s hands on him to a degree that sometimes left him unable to breathe properly in his presence.

During the days, everything was the same. They worked, side by side, as they always had, Xanatos issuing crisp instructions that Owen followed, unless there was good reason for a snide remark. Xanatos didn’t treat him differently then, or touch him beyond the accustomed hand on a shoulder, or fingers brushing against the sleeve of his suit to draw his attention where it should go.

At night, they joined together, until Owen could hardly tell their bodies apart, until a heave of Xanatos’s breath made his own chest tight in response.

They fucked, and they talked, and Xanatos’s shoulders would shake with laughter as he lay in Owen’s arms, drawing stories and increasingly blunt opinions out of him, but they never spoke about what it meant. About when it would end.

By the start of the second month, things finally changed again.

They’d grown comfortable, accustomed to each other’s bodies, enjoying the experimentation that came with familiarity. Owen’s favorite was still the same—Xanatos inside of him, their faces close enough for him to watch heady bliss smoothing out the day’s worries, their mouths never more than a breath apart.

He carefully chose, each day, not to think about the plans that still preoccupied the rest of their waking moments, that still made Xanatos watch the horizon with repressed longing. Owen knew what he was doing. Breaking his own heart was his choice, and there was no sense in regret.

That night, Xanatos stilled inside him, the unexpected pause in their familiar rhythm making Owen’s eyes fly open, his mouth slanting down in displeased confusion.

“Owen,” Xanatos said, cradling Owen’s face in both hands, as he did sometimes, more often of late. “Owen, do you love me?”

It was a blow—an icy chill that swept through his veins, that sent him back to—but no. The answer was different now. It had been, for years, for far longer than he cared to admit.

“Owen,” Xanatos asked again, his eyes searching for an answer, and Owen replied, with the only word he could.

_Yes._

Owen didn’t ask in turn, and Xanatos didn’t speak much that night, beyond the bare necessities. He was quiet, and oddly tender as he cleaned them both, then stroked Owen’s sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead. He leaned over Owen to retrieve the wire-framed glasses that one of them had knocked off the bedside table, as they often did.

“They’re getting bent,” Xanatos said, folding them carefully and setting them aside. “We should buy you new ones. With stronger frames.”

He kissed Owen once more before falling asleep, as he always did, and Owen left before morning, as he always must.

***

By the end of that second month, their long-crafted plan had succeeded; Fox’s early parole was granted, and Owen turned his eyes away as they embraced, as Xanatos’s joy at her return spilled over.

A week later, Fox had moved into their home—into Xanatos’s bedroom. The following month, they were engaged.

Owen worked by Xanatos’s side, carrying out new plans, helping him to craft fresh schemes. They never touched, beyond a hand on a shoulder, a casual brush of fingers across coarse fabric. Although Xanatos seemed to be watching him sometimes, quietly, as though waiting for an answer to a question he’d never posed, they didn’t speak of what had happened between them.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t understand you,” Demona said.

Owen watched her approach; he’d heard her glide down to the castle but hadn’t bothered to move from his seat on the edge of a wide stone wall, overlooking the bright lights of the city stretching out far below. She was an ally for the present, working with Xanatos on his latest attempt at immortality. That didn’t mean Owen trusted her.

“You’re not human,” Demona said, folding her wings as she perched beside him—graceful, and dangerous, but not someone he wasted effort fearing. “Yet you act like one. Why.”

“I made a promise,” Owen said. He could’ve left it there, but he swept a sidelong look at her, then added, dryly, “Perhaps you need the word defined.”

“Funny,” she said, in a tone so casually uncaring that he could tell he’d poked at a particularly tender spot, one she’d spent centuries ignoring.

“So I’ve been told,” he said.

Demona’s lips pulled back slightly as she spoke through her fangs. “That’s what I mean, _Puck_. Why do you persist in masquerading in this skin, when we both know who you are?”

“I’m Owen,” he replied, adjusting the glasses that had slipped a little down his nose. The frames didn’t fit right around his ears anymore; he should have the screws tightened, when he had the time.

“You’re _pining_ ,” she spat, as though she’d never heard a fouler word.

That, he hadn’t expected. He didn’t bother denying it; Demona was many things, but never a fool. “I don’t see what relevance that has to you,” he said. “You wish to gain immortality; I’m doing my part. Owen is perfectly capable of playing his role.”

“And Puck has powers Owen could never dream of.” Demona tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully. It was unpleasant, but he let her eyes scrape over him. “When you were last in your true form, as Puck—” she began.

Owen let out a sudden, scoffing breath. “When you held me in chains and made me do your bidding.”

She shrugged, lightly. “You said something to me then. You told me that if I wished, you could make Goliath love me again. Was that true?”

“I bend the truth,” he said. “When the mood strikes me. I do not lie.”

“So it was possible.”

“Yes,” he said. He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure where she was heading. “Titania’s mirror is beyond your reach now. Even if you had it in your grasp, you know full well I wouldn’t carry out the wish the way you wanted.”

“Because you’re a trickster,” she said, with annoyance that bordered on grudging respect. It was clear that she hadn’t often run into someone who could best her. “But my point, Puck, is that you have this power. You could make David Xanatos love you.”

Owen’s lip curled in disgust; he turned away from her.

“Don’t pretend you have a human’s misguided sense of honor,” Demona chided, _human_ sounding like the darkest expletive she could harness. “You’ve done worse, over the centuries, as have I.”

He didn’t bother dignifying her with a response.

“Answer me, Puck,” she demanded, then, dripping with disdain, when he remained silent: “ _Owen_.”

“You think ill of humans,” Owen said, each word precise, biting. “You blame them for all your errors, for the foul deeds only you were responsible for carrying out. You think yourself above them, and you assume that I, as someone who has lived far longer than you, who has seen worlds you cannot fathom, will treat humans with as little esteem.”

Demona rose to her feet, towering over him, her eyes flashing red in fury.

Owen cast her a look that carried the full weight of his contempt. “Yes, I have the power to do as you say, and far beyond that. What you don’t see—what I suspect you’ve never seen—is that forcing someone to bend to your will is meaningless. All it does is show how weak, how petty, you are.”

Demona hissed at him, but did not approach. She unfurled her wings, and as she dropped from the turret, she cast back her parting shot. “You should know, then, that Fox is pregnant.”

“I know,” he said, to the now-empty sky. He watched as she followed the currents across the city, well past the clock tower where her former love resided, no longer thinking of her.

Xanatos hadn’t told him yet, but Owen was familiar with the signs. He’d seen, too, the way Xanatos had grown more careful with her, how his hands would instinctively stray, now, to her waist, her still-flat belly, not yet swollen with life. How he looked at her, with a light in his eyes that would’ve burned one less worthy to cinders.

“I know,” he repeated quietly and, adjusting his glasses and briskly dusting off his suit, returned to his work.

***

He sensed the impending Gathering long before Oberon loosed the full strength of his will. He spent months making preparations—nine months, and a little more, each more difficult than the last, as he readied himself for the ultimate farewell.

Xanatos had his family: a wife, a son, and parents—the human ones—who would stand by him when it mattered. His home was shielded against magic, filled with iron guardians who would do his bidding. Owen had done everything he could; he wasn’t brave enough, or strong enough, to stay. Even the greatest of Oberon’s Children had no powers that could stand against their lord’s. 

Owen’s decision to return during the final throes of their defeat surprised everyone, most of all himself. But Xanatos...Xanatos—battered and bloodied from the hopeless battle—simply smiled at him, and with that same warm confidence, said, as easy as breathing: “Owen. I knew you’d come back.”

It was that thought that he clung to, later, when his lord drove him to his knees, taking his power from him as retribution for standing by a human. For _choosing_ that mortal over the king who had demanded his eternal allegiance, his fealty.

It was too much to ask of anyone. A lifetime trapped in human flesh—a lifetime inevitably shortened by the hazards that came with the inability to change to Puck at any sign of mortal danger. He had chosen this, yes, but with the knowledge that he always had an escape, that he would always be able to return to Avalon, his true home. This banishment was involuntary—and permanent. A life sentence of service to a human and the family that already held all Xanatos's devotion, with no room left in his heart for a pitiful, power-stripped trickster.

Puck pleaded with Oberon, desperate to bargain with anything within his grasp, unwilling to toss his life away, to trade eternity and paradise for...

He turned his head, just enough, and saw Xanatos with Fox, with Alexander. A family that would be irreparably shattered without Puck’s sacrifice. Xanatos had his eyes fixed on him, asking nothing. Simply believing in him, as he always had.

 _For love_ , Owen thought, and bowed his head, and transformed.

***

Being human held as many hazards as Owen had anticipated. It took less than six months for the worst one yet, for a kidnapping attempt to _succeed_ , to send Owen crashing into a pile of rubble, knocked unconscious and helpless, unable to lift a finger to shield the child he’d sworn to protect.

He swam back to consciousness slowly, in hazy, medication-addled degrees that left him prone in a hospital bed as each fresh burst of information on Alexander’s abduction filtered through. The nurses kept the TV on in the corner of the room, a constant murmur of sound, and discussed the news as they checked his vitals, replacing his IV bag, noting the spikes of his heartbeat but thinking nothing of it, of his futile attempts to overcome the limitations of his mortal body.

By the time he had recovered enough to sit up, unaided, to even begin to think of making his escape from the disinfectant-scented room, the entire thing was over. Alexander had been recovered, without his help. Without any need of him at all.

He responded to the nurses— _“Oh! Mr. Xanatos will be so glad to hear you’re awake! Have you heard about his son? It was so frightening, I can’t believe anyone would take a child like that...oh goodness, that’s how you were injured, wasn’t it...”_ —and submitted to more needles in his veins, more tests, before a doctor finally scrawled his release across his chart.

“You have a mild concussion,” the doctor told him, in clipped tones that signaled she had far more pressing business to attend to. “You’ll need someone to drive you home, and to watch over you for the next 24 hours. Everything should be fine, but with that kind of blow to the head, it’s best to be careful.”

He nodded, wincing when that sent fresh pain throbbing through his head. He watched the TV screen as a campaign crumbled under a politician’s hate-fueled ravings, then, when the sun spilled its first rays through his window, turned his attention to a bird that was fastidiously building a nest on a nearby branch, twig by twig.

He curled his fingers towards his palm, then flattened them, repeating the gesture a dozen times as his stone fist rested heavily on his hospital gown-clad thigh. He waited.

When Xanatos arrived a few hours after dawn, it was with his family.

Fox set Alexander in his arms, and Owen felt the grim lines of his face soften as he looked down at the baby’s gummy grin.

“He’s glad to see you’re well,” Fox said. “As are we.”

With the baby’s warm, powder-scented weight in his lap, Owen stretched out his senses, testing his powers. They were there now, but not quite within reach: the child was not in need of either tutoring or rescue.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said when Xanatos took the chair by the bed.

“For what, Owen?” he asked. Xanatos reached forward to tickle Alexander’s nose, and the baby laughed, then tried to clap his chubby hands over his father’s finger. He overbalanced, toppling forward; Owen caught him, with an instinctive movement that made him forget to be cautious. The subsequent wave of nausea-tinged dizziness was new, and quite unpleasant.

“You’re tired,” Fox said, retrieving her child. She glanced at her husband, who shook his head slightly and remained in place. She retreated to the doorway as Xanatos shifted forward in his chair, touching Owen’s hand—just barely, with the tips of his fingers.

“The doctor said—” he began, and Owen gritted his teeth before he made the mistake of shaking his head.

“I’m fine, Mr. Xanatos,” he said. “It’s no more than a concussion. I should be able to resume my duties this afternoon.”

“Owen,” Xanatos said. It was affectionate and reproving, all at once.

That hurt, too, in areas that hadn’t been damaged by this latest series of events.

Owen drew his hand back—a slight enough movement that anyone other than Xanatos wouldn’t have noticed. His brow furrowed; before he could say anything, Owen resumed his interrupted apology. “They caught me off guard, sir. I’ll do my best not to let that happen again.”

Xanatos made an impatient, almost angry gesture. “What happened to Alex wasn’t your fault. We were all there—me, his mother, even Lexington, who got caught in the same rubble you did. If anyone’s to blame, it’s all of us, or me, for not taking better precautions when I offered the gargoyles our home as a refuge. I knew what kind of dangers that could bring with it.”

“We can increase our security measures,” Owen said, already sifting through the possibilities. “Still, if I’d been faster...” He waved the objection away. “Alexander’s protection is one of the only ways I can be of use now. It’s unacceptable that I wasn’t—”

“Will you shut up for a minute,” Xanatos said, rising half out of his chair, more irritated than Owen had ever heard him. “If you don’t understand that I—it’s _you_ I’m worried about. You nearly...Owen, the doctors told me they weren’t sure you’d wake up.”

Owen’s mouth flattened in annoyance. “I may be human, sir, but I’m not that fragile yet. I assure you, I’m still well able to take care of myself. And your son,” he amended, glancing at Fox, who was still standing several feet away, jostling Alex lightly in her arms and watching the two of them with no little amusement.

“Owen, you absolute block-headed _fool_ ,” Xanatos burst, frustrated, then lifted himself fully out of his seat to grasp Owen by both sides of his jaw, shoving their mouths together in something that was almost too angry to qualify as a kiss.

He was unable to focus on anything other than head-splitting dizziness for a few moments—for someone expressing such concern over his safety, Xanatos was showing remarkably little care for his current well-being, Owen thought, muzzily. He considered telling him that, still offended by the insinuation that he...he was being kissed, he realized.

Xanatos softened the insistent press of his mouth, maintaining his grip on Owen’s jaw but with more of a focus now on steadying him, on holding him close.

His eyes were still open, Owen realized, and shut them, sinking into the kiss, responding with more than a year’s worth of badly suppressed longing. He’d never stopped wanting this— _needing_ it, but knowing he’d reached his fill, that he’d never again be able to feel Xanatos’s tongue against his or the scrape of his beard across his skin, to remember exactly what it was like to taste him. He’d never...his eyes shot open again, and he pulled his face away, shooting an aghast look to the doorway.

Fox was braced against the sturdy frame, her attention mainly focused on the flow of traffic down the busy hall. They’d put Owen in a crowded area of the hospital, and Fox was, understandably, still tense from the earlier ambush, keeping an eye out for any new ripples of danger. She glanced back into the room—curious, probably, about the sudden silence, and rolled her eyes expressively when she caught sight of whatever panic or guilt was splashed across Owen’s face.

“Oh, for—” She cut short whatever oath she’d been about to utter, casting her eyes down to the top of Alex’s golden peach-fuzz head, then sighing quite audiby in her husband’s direction. “David, I told you that you should’ve had this conversation with him ages ago.”

“I know,” Xanatos said, sounding contrite, but not for the reasons Owen had expected.

He felt dizzy, still, burdened by a too-human body that was still in the process of healing. “I don’t understand,” he said, frustrated by his wrong-footedness, by the unfamiliarity of being the last one in a room to have a grasp on new information. Shouldn’t she be angry? Jealous, at least, an emotion he’d witnessed in every shade imaginable, from humans and fae alike.

“You might as well come out with it now,” Fox said. Though the words on their own sounded irritated, her voice was light, and she was smiling a little. “Or will he believe it more, coming from me? Owen, I gave David my blessing _years_ ago, long before he acted on it.”

Xanatos made what sounded like a deeply embarrassed noise, something Owen had certainly never heard from him before. There was a dark red flush spreading along his cheeks, and he looked young, suddenly, younger even than when Owen had first met him.

“Of course,” Fox continued, “that was before I knew that you were fae, or that _I_ was, for that matter. Not that it would’ve changed anything. It just would’ve been nice for one of you to fill me in before the Lord of Avalon was battering down our doors.”

“Owen never told me about your mother,” Xanatos protested, and Fox tossed her hair, the bright red tresses sweeping along her back.

“Better communication all around, then,” she said, decisively. “If this is going to work in the future. I’ll leave you to talk it out. Alex and I could both use some sleep.”

She crossed the room, bent to kiss her husband’s temple in farewell, then seemed to be—very briefly—considering doing the same to Owen, before determining neither one of them would appreciate that in the slightest.

Pausing again before leaving, she added, “It’s your business, so I won’t interfere. But Owen, you should know at least this much: he’s loved you far longer than you know. And if you thought that had changed, that’s only because of the man he is—because he wouldn’t take anything from you against your will, without you offering. So if you still feel the same, then tell him. Bloody well talk to each other, so I don’t have to.”

And with that, she swept through the doorway, kicking the door meaningfully shut behind her.

“If you’ve ever wondered why I married her,” Xanatos murmured, watching her go with the same fondness that had always made Owen ache. This time, the fondness was still there when he turned his eyes back to Owen.

“So she knew, all along,” Owen said when it became apparent that Xanatos was not planning to speak first.

Some of the earlier embarrassment returned; as confident as Xanatos was in the bedroom, with the physicality of a relationship, he seemed to have more difficulty expressing it in words. It was something Owen should’ve known about him but hadn’t thought to look for.

He cleared his throat and dragged his chair closer to the bed, sitting back down. “I told her the morning after the first time. And...she wasn’t surprised. We’d talked about it before. A long time before.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Owen asked, feeling spectacularly foolish.

Xanatos gave him a wry smile, touching his hand, a little hesitantly, as though he thought Owen might take it away again. Owen turned it over instead, letting Xanatos trace his fingers over his palm, then link them together.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve always had this idea that you would leave me, Owen.”

Owen frowned; that went against the very notion of their deal, the choice that he had given Xanatos what already felt like half a lifetime ago but would, if he had anything to say about it, last for far longer than the span of one mortal’s years.

“I was afraid to ask what that meant,” Xanatos said, reading his expression, as he so often did. “What were you giving me that day, when I asked you to stay? How much of it was still your choice, and not mine imposed on you?”

“You’ve had Puck by your side for six years and you still know nothing about the fae,” Owen said.

Xanatos chuckled and touched the corner of Owen’s mouth, which had dipped down in fresh annoyance. “I’m willing to learn.”

“I offered you a lifetime of servitude,” Owen said. “Not myself. And if I’d tired of it, or of you, Owen could’ve become as dull and useless to you as Preston Vogel. Anything I’ve given you—anything I’ve done for you—has always been my choice.”

“And now?” Xanatos asked.

He didn’t specify what he meant: Owen’s emotional attachment to him or the revised contract that had landed him in this bed, in a gown that he was itching to remove from skin that was used to far more luxurious materials. He chose to answer both.

“I stayed because I wanted to, Mr. Xanatos. Because the alternative was leaving you.”

Xanatos was grinning at him now, with that teasing edge to it that had always made Owen want to simultaneously push him away and pull him closer. A confusing impulse that he was beginning to suspect wasn’t reserved for humans.

“I think we’re going to have to work on that, Owen,” Xanatos said, looking as happy now as Owen had ever seen him.

“Sir?” Owen asked.

“Not that I don’t like it,” Xanatos said, leaning forward again, removing Owen’s glasses to show him exactly how much, this time without any interruptions. He left a final trail of kisses along Owen’s jaw, up to the shell of his ear, then murmured, “You can at least call me Xanatos.”

“I can’t make any promises, sir,” Owen said, and shivered when Xanatos laughed in response, the warm exhale tickling the side of his throat.

“We should get you home,” Xanatos said. “And dressed. I can’t imagine how much you must hate what you’re wearing right now.”

***

Xanatos didn’t come to Owen’s room that night, for long enough that Owen was beginning to wonder if he’d changed his mind. Humans often did things—said things—in the heat of the moment, guided by a rush of emotions that would quickly fade, along with their promises.

He’d settled into the cushioned window seat, holding his flipped-open phone and considering which time zones were appropriate at this hour—there were a few important deals still pending, and he’d lost an unreasonable amount of time in that hospital—when a knock finally came at the door.

Xanatos entered without waiting for an answer; he was wearing both sleeping pants and a shirt, Owen noted, with a displeased grimace that Xanatos immediately caught.

“You’re supposed to be resting, not exerting yourself,” he said, crossing the room and taking the phone out of Owen’s hand, followed by his glasses—followed by a kiss to greet him, to break the long fast from earlier that morning.

“I’ve slept quite enough,” Owen said, letting Xanatos take him by the bicep anyway, guiding him to the bed.

“You were unconscious; that hardly counts.” Xanatos turned off the lamp as Owen was pulling the covers back, then joined him, their limbs awkward at first, elbows and knees knocking uncomfortably until they remembered how their bodies fit together.

The bed was a little small for the two of them; Owen had never needed a larger one. He wondered if Xanatos would suggest replacing it. If they would be sharing it enough for that to matter. They hadn’t discussed any details yet—the nights that Xanatos would spend with Owen, how he planned to split his time. His love.

“I can feel you thinking, Owen,” Xanatos said, more comfortable speaking his mind now that they were alone and entwined, his head resting against Owen’s bare chest, with their hearts beating in tune.

 _Communication_ , Owen thought, uneasy with something so direct, so dangerously close to vulnerability. He’d spent his life approaching nearly everything from an angle, with an eye towards...mischief, some would say. He’d simply thought of it as entertainment.

Being with Xanatos hadn’t changed him. They were both tricksters, in their way; Xanatos’s keen attention to the world around him, finding ways to manipulate it to suit his will, had sparked and held Owen’s interest. That would always be a driving force in their lives and their partnership. The rest—the secondary notion of what a _partnership_ could mean—had come later, bringing him awareness of a piece of his life he’d never thought of as missing. The idea of losing that again was crushing—worse than being cast at Oberon’s feet, having a potential future torn from him.

Avalon was a future he’d wanted as a backup—a safety net, of sorts. Not his ideal life, but one he could always keep tucked into a pocket for a rainy day.

This future—with Xanatos in his arms, with the enticingly formidable task of teaching Alexander everything he knew of magic, with a world of possibilities he’d never known to dream of stretching before him—this was tangible. He couldn’t let go of it. It was a fight he didn’t want to run from, not anymore.

He took the leap, asking the questions that he couldn’t keep from rampaging through his thoughts, and Xanatos listened, and admitted that he didn’t know the answers, not yet.

“All I can promise is that we’ll figure it out,” he said, taking Owen’s hand in his—the stone one, pressing his lips to its cold surface. “If you’re willing to wait a little while,” he asked.

“I’ve waited six years,” Owen responded dryly. “What’s a month or two more.”

Xanatos was still tracing over Owen’s stone fingers, tightly curled into a fist he could no longer open. It wasn’t new to him, but it’d happened after they’d stopped doing _this_. After it was no longer acceptable to explore each other’s skin, to share the stories behind their scars.

“Why haven’t you healed it?” Xanatos asked finally.

“I don’t know if I can anymore,” Owen said. It was possible, if he bent the rules, making it a part of Alexander’s training while he had full access to his abilities. But he was deflecting still; he knew that wasn’t what Xanatos was asking. The loss of his power was recent; the stone wasn’t. He’d chosen to keep it for this long, wearing it as a badge of sorts—a heavy, ever-present reminder.

“Why did you do it?”

And that was another question Xanatos had never asked.

Owen felt his body tense in response, at the memory of it. Xanatos felt it, too, and lifted himself away, propping himself up on an elbow so he could see Owen’s face.

“Owen?” he asked.

It was too similar to that night more than a year ago, with Xanatos using the repetition of his name to wring out an answer he didn’t want to give, and Owen shut his eyes, grinding his jaw to halt the unwelcome spill of emotions.

Xanatos didn’t press again, and he didn’t leave, which was the other option, the worse one. He touched Owen after a little while—not with any intent or demand, just the brush of calloused fingers along his shoulders, his ribs, until his breathing evened out, until he was ready to speak again.

“You were taunting me,” Owen said when he reopened his eyes to find Xanatos gazing down at him, with an unguarded expression that he didn’t have time—or perhaps the inclination—to shutter.

“With the Cauldron of Life?” Xanatos asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “I don’t remember that.”

“It’d been three months,” Owen said, through gritted teeth, his voice as hollow as his chest had been at the time. “You asked me if I loved you. Love is different for the fae. When you asked me that question, you were asking if I would do _anything_ for you—if I would die for you, if you asked me to. And the answer was yes.”

Xanatos’s lips parted; he looked stricken, but didn’t speak.

“And then barely three months later, you had the absolute gall, _sir_ , to insinuate that any iota of my loyalty—of my _love_ for you—was in question. Of course I put my hand in the cauldron. I would’ve plunged my entire body inside to prevent you from testing it on yourself.”

“I would never want that,” Xanatos said. He touched Owen’s hand again, with pain creasing his brow now. “I didn’t want _this_. I’d never understood why you didn’t change it back.”

They didn’t need to go into the details: the reminder that Owen had blazed into his own body. This was what it was to love a human. There were always consequences.

Xanatos kissed Owen’s hand once more, along each finger and up his arm until stone gave way to skin that flushed at the scratch of his beard, soothed by the softness of his lips. He straddled Owen then, setting his palms on Owen’s chest and looking down at him, his mouth set in a wounded, sorrowful line.

“I asked you a question I shouldn’t have back then,” he said. “I’ve spent the better part of a year wondering if anything would have been different if you’d demanded my answer, too.”

He looked kingly, Owen thought, unable to resist the desire to reach up, to touch the soft cascade of his dark hair over his broad shoulders, his chiseled jawline, the beard that he hadn’t trimmed for a few days, too worried about his son—about Owen.

No, he amended as he released the buttons along Xanatos’s shirt, revealing, bit by bit, an expanse of warm skin that he could touch, could taste if he wanted. Not a king. A man with a brave, true heart; with soaring ambitions that could only match his own; and a mind unlike any he’d encountered before.

“Do you love me?” Owen asked, when he was ready.

Xanatos’s eyes were dark—hard to see clearly with the moon on the wane, with Owen's glasses set on the windowsill, far out of his reach. Owen threaded his fingers into Xanatos’s hair, pushing a heavy sheet of it aside, wordlessly coaxing him to tilt his face until the moonlight spilled across his forehead, his cheekbones.

His eyes were dark, and kind, and filled with something that Owen, in well over a millennium, had never had the chance to name. Recognition was part of it—he knew now what Owen was asking, the depth that lay behind those words.

“Xanatos?” Owen asked.

“Yes,” he said, reaching forward to cup Owen’s face in both hands, a gesture that was more tender than Owen had thought him capable of. “Yes, Owen, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is pretty wildly different from what I usually write, so it was a stretch for me — and stressful (exciting? stressful) to post. If you got this far, phew, thank you, I really needed someone else to join me in the pit of feels! I hope you enjoyed (or will enjoy, if you’re checking cw first and decide to read).
> 
> I approached this from a very canon compliant way, which meant (a) including Fox, as a crucial part of Xanatos’s life (b) tapping into how incredibly horny this show is. I still think the end result is a lot heavier on the feels, since that’s how I roll, but here are more detailed content warnings:
> 
>  _Unprotected sex:_ The first time Owen and Xanatos have sex, they go ahead without condoms, after a conversation. Owen is a virgin, Xanatos has been tested recently and is clean, Owen was already plunging ahead with a lot of reckless decisions.
> 
>  _Slight dubcon/manhandling:_ Owen initially comes to Xanatos’s room shapeshifted into Fox, Xanatos’s imprisoned girlfriend, in a misguided attempt to let him blow off some steam/reunite with someone he’s been missing deeply. There’s no attempt at deception; Xanatos is fully aware it’s Owen. Xanatos is angry and hurt that Owen would finally show interest in him, but not as _himself_ , but since he’s bad at putting his emotions into words, he reacts with some aggressively physical kissing/heavy petting that quickly makes Owen feel uncomfortable. Xanatos immediately backs off and they have a conversation; Owen shifts back to himself before they have sex, and the rest is fully mutual and consensual.
> 
>  _Presumed infidelity:_ Owen and Xanatos have a sexual and romantic relationship for two months, which Owen absolutely assumes is going to break his heart and stops the moment Fox is released from jail and returns to Xanatos. Owen finds out over a year later that (a) Fox knew all along and was more than fine with it (b) their relationship is open (although they don’t really explore that much) (c) Xanatos is poly and is deeply in love with both Fox and Owen (d) communication is SUPER important, especially when you have multiple parties involved. (Additional note: The endgames are Xanatos/Owen and Xanatos/Fox, separately, forming a nontraditionally happy family but never a romantic or sexual trio.)
> 
> This is mostly a story about Owen: discovering who he is, what he wants, and what's worth fighting for. (Personally, I think Owen himself is worth fighting for, and I think Xanatos has seen that, too, from very early on, and simply needed to learn to express it.)
> 
> Again, if you got this far, thank you so much for reading.
> 
> For a sequel from Xanatos's POV, see [Until the Break of Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22824670/chapters/54549334). And then check out mikkimouse's Alex POV future-fic, linked below!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967992) by [mikkimouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkimouse/pseuds/mikkimouse)




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